And you and I

Well, I forgot my razor. I forgot my razor and I had a 3 day retreat out in the middle of nowhere. I suppose it's no problem, I thought, after all, my "beard growth" is approximately as slow as stellar evolution. And besides, who am I looking to impress? I'm a Westerner: I could walk around wearing a thong over my head pretending to be Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Japanese women would still be lining up to give me their numbers (it's true, it's happened many times before, but I never call because I can't read their names). Because my accommodations didn't provide me the opportunity to steal a glance at my own reflection (we were, how do you say, roughing it?), you can imagine my astonishment when I returned home to see the spittin' image of George Michael, circa 1987 staring back at me in the mirror, retro sunglasses and all!

Well, of course, my hair growth was a little splotchy and not quite as filled in as that of old candy-pants--and I hadn't ended up buying the USA leather jacket (the platinum cross earrings really broke the bank)--but it was mine, and, damnit, it looked good.

Well, ok, I suppose it didn't really look that good, probably more like a kid who broke into his old man's liquor cabinet, stumbled into the garage, stole the lawnmower, tripped over the gardening hose on his way out causing a severe concussion (his mom never cleans up after herself), suddenly experienced the latter stages of syphilis, and then went to town on my face. As most people who know me can attest, I cannot grow facial hair, but I certainly wasn't going to let that minor detail stop me; I thought I had finally achieved manhood, fulfilling the sacred rite of passage that most boys complete by age 15, but for which I exhibited somewhat retarded development, and I'd be damned if I was going to let anyone tell me otherwise.

Two weeks worth of unchecked facial hair growth and I was starting to incur the stares of my fellow train passengers, some of them motioning for me to wipe the curry residue from my chin, some merely wincing as I passed their line of sight, while others were forced to avert their eyes as the sunlight reflected off my overdeveloped peach fuzz. I realized the game was up. I'd have to stave off manhood for the second time (the first time, at age 13, I failed my vision-quest because I ran out of snack-packs and had to return to camp). But I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I'd keep a small memento, a battle scar of my struggle against God's will and my incomplete genome: I kept my sideburns. Let me be frank for a moment; all joking aside, they really didn't look so bad. In fact, in the right light, they looked almost passable. I found that if I turned my head a certain way, the hairs in the front would cast a shadow over the bald portions in the back, thereby creating the illusion of a fully developed pair of sideburns, and damn fine ones at that. Take that, DNA!

I will admit, though, that it was a little obnoxious having to approach people with my head constantly maintaining this unnatural angle with their line of sight, but if it was my masculinity at stake, I would happily make this sacrifice.

And so it was one night that I went to bed calm and brimming with confidence, my sideburns having garnered me 3 new phone numbers that day, when I had the strangest dream. I’m not exactly sure what caused it: was it the uncomfortable nature of the futon? Providence? Or was it simply the painful angle I had my head cocked all the time? Whatever the case, it proved a turning point for the life of my facial hair:

It was just me and a strand of my DNA sitting in a classroom together, the teacher droning on about the sociological effects of Hillary Duff's new single on inner city residents of Detroit (I'm not sure why my id chose sociology; it truely is a hideously trite subject). DNA kept smiling at me and flashing bits of skin. I smiled back and feigned interest in the subject at hand, but I simply couldn't take my eyes the mini-skirt--I wanted nothing more than to leap over the desk and pull apart her helixes, but something about fooling around with one’s own vital construct seemed a little creepy. Wouldn’t it be like making out with myself? And wouldn’t that make me gay, or something? I don’t know, stop asking me these ridiculous questions, it was a dream for God's sake! I'm not gay! Seriously, stop looking at me like that.

Well, as it happened, I couldn’t resist my carnal urges and DNA and I ended up on the teacher’s desk, the teacher having, by this time, conveniently turned herself into a copy of Sting’s Ten Summoner's Tales which was playing amorously over the intercom. DNA was softly nibbling my ears as I worked at the buttons on her shirt. I finished the task, my nimble fingers working quickly, and I slowly began to work my way back up, my lips tracing along her suprasternal notch, across her phosphodiester bonds, and over the curvature of her chin, when suddenly, as I made to kiss her full on the lips, a large clump of hair passed from her mouth to mine. I began to choke.

“*cough* what the *gag* I can’t *wheeze*…” I stopped short as my hand glanced across my face, finding the answer to my unformed question. She had completely nibbled away my sideburns.

"Mmm. I was never able to have any of these," she said as she chomped merrily away.

I woke up in a cold sweat, not knowing where I was, what was real and what wasn’t, and a little worried about my sexual orientation. As I slowly came out of my post-sleep stupor, I grasped at my face only to find that I was completely shorn, clean shaven, not a trace of hair! Now I’m not saying that the dream actually happened, and I’m not saying it didn't. What I am saying is that I’d like my copy of Ten Summoner's Tales back.

Wait a sec... YOUR DNA was a SHE??? Does anybody else find something wrong with that? Nick in a mini-skirt? whoa there...

Anywho - Happy Birthday Nick - I still love ya!

Bobbi

I have all of your Sting albums, and I am quite enjoying them thanks...

1) Hey, don't you judge me! I don't judge you!

2) Mer, if you are happy with your fake brother, then fine, don't give me back my CD's.